


The firestarter

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:46:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during On the Head of a Pin. While he waits for Dean, Alastair reminisces on what brought them together. Those forty years? Were <em>delicious.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The firestarter

Like every demon, Alastair knows all about the Winchesters. And John Winchester? Doesn’t feel right under his fingertips.

Alastair knows the man inside and out; after all, he’s spent more time on Alastair’s rack than any other human. The spark’s not there, though. John takes each slice with a grimace, his body betraying him with howls of pain, but he doesn’t engage, never engages. Most days, he never even speaks, no matter how much Alastair pushes.

It’s _boring._

He’s been told that breaking John is of utmost importance: he’s the first seal, after all. But Alastair just can’t find it in himself to care enough to break him because he disagrees. He doesn’t want John to be the righteous man. John doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve to be the one that holds the title. The one known and revered for bringing Hell on Earth.

He gives John just enough to keep him from saying yes, to avoid approaching that breaking point. If John keeps thinking of kissing Mary, of playing catch with Dean, of holding baby Sammy for the first time, Alastair will feign ignorance. Absolutely not his doing, nope.

He has to deal with Lilith’s anger at John’s escape, but he doesn’t care, just lets her hurl insults at him, doing his best not to laugh. Because soon? There’ll be another Winchester heading this way. His personal favorite, no less. And despite Lilith’s rage, Alastair’s already bagged him. 

::: 

“Do you ever wonder what really happened down there?” Alastair asks conversationally. Castiel makes no indication that he’s paying attention; he’s methodically double-checking the devil’s trap, keen eyes scouting for possible disruptions.

“No?”

Castiel finally gets up, apparently satisfied with his symbols. “I already know.” His back is still turned, stiff and rigid.

“If you say so,” Alastair says, getting more settled in his chains. “But do you know how it came to be, how I got my hands on him in the first place? Are you jealous, angel, that he was in my arms first?”

Castiel’s back is tense but he turns around, gaze averted. Doesn’t want to see the truth in Alastair’s eyes. He picks up the chains again and tightens them, forcing a gasp out of his meat suit. Alastair leans down, closes in to Castiel’s cheek.

“Where’s my boy?”

Castiel’s eyes finally flick up. “He’s not your boy,” he answers, and for the first time since Castiel walked into the room, there is a hint of underlying emotion. Resentment, perhaps. Bitterness. Anger. Can’t tell if it’s toward Alastair or himself. Looks like he’s not the only one laying claim on Dean.

“Not yours, either,” Alastair says.

“He belongs to Heaven,” Castiel replies firmly, but his eyes say otherwise.

“Ah ah ah,” Alastair sings, shaking his head. “He was Hell’s first.“

Castiel’s eyes narrow and he squares his shoulders, but he says nothing, walking around Alastair one last time to make sure everything’s ready before he heads for the door.

“Stay a pinch, angel,” Alastair says. “The stories I could tell you…you want to know from me, I can sense it from your pores.”

Castiel pauses, fingers on the handle, and waits a moment. _He does want to know, oh, he does._

Then he’s gone.

Alastair leans back and waits, closing his eyes with a small smile.

  
_  
**[ year one ]**   
_   


_Alastair sees the room in his mind’s eye._

Time passes differently in Hell. Topside? Way too fast. People running around in senseless chaos, a horde of bodies bumping into each other and not bothering to give each other a second glance. Not even time to just sit back and enjoy life and its simple pleasures. He found quickly that he preferred the pit’s sense of schedule. A lot more time on his hands for training. To appreciate everything: the smell of new blood, fresh meat - soft, delicate tissue. The hoarse yells of those who lost their voices hours ago but are unable to keep silent. The palpable sense of hopelessness.

This is the first time he curses the time difference, though. Sometimes he ponders heading up just to watch Dean squirm in pathetic desperation to save his own life. Or if Dean’s even bothering. But Alastair doesn’t. He stays where he belongs. Some of his protégés need more work, after all.

“It’s not much longer now,” Meg says. She’s nearly drooling with anticipation, and Alastair raises an eyebrow. She may be a decent student but she’s far from ready, and he tells her so.

“Why not?” Meg asks, and there’s an undertone of petulance that Alastair doesn’t stand for.

“You’d embarrass yourself,” Alastair says simply. “But more importantly, you’d embarrass me. This is a bit out of your league, darlin’.”

“Excuse me,” Meg says. “I could do a pretty decent job, fuck you very much. I know him better than you; I know all his pathetic issues and weaknesses. I figured I would be the only one who _would_ get a chance with him.”

“Nobody’s getting a chance with him, if it’s any consolation,” Alastair says.

Meg’s still pouting. “But –“ she begins.

“If you don’t stop complaining right now, I’m throwing you on that rack,” Alastair says mildly, and Meg’s eyes widen slightly.

“Tell me how it goes, at least,” she says with a reluctant frown, and she backs away from him.

:::

Alastair knows it’s time before Lilith shows up.

“All right,” she says. “Put up or shut the fuck up time. He’s all yours.”

A slow, lazy smile drifts across Alastair’s face. “Anyone else seen him yet?”

Lilith shakes her head once. “No one besides me. And don’t worry, I made sure that you’re going to be the first person he sees.”

“You’re too good to me,” Alastair murmurs, reaching a hand out to her. Lilith dodges it with ease.

“Show me that you’re grateful by breaking him in, okay?” Lilith sighs before she smiles wistfully. “It would be nice to see a demon Winchester, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ll see it,” Alastair says. “I assure you.”

That smile drops off of Lilith’s face and for a brief moment she looks despondent, but she shakes her head. “Just get it done.”

Alastair salutes her as she walks away. He takes a deep breath, treasuring this moment, because he’ll never be at this point again. Dean will cease to become a dream, and Alastair will never have the opportunity to imagine what Dean’s going to be like. He wonders if he’ll be disappointed, if Dean won’t be able to live up to the fantasy.

But Alastair doesn’t ruminate on it for long. He was never a patient person.

It’s a better sight than he could have possibly imagined. Dean’s strung up, and Alastair shivers: Dean’s been waiting for him. He’s untouched. Pure.

_For him._

Alastair just watches for a moment. Drinks him in. Dean’s completely unbridled, desperate, panicked. He’s not aware he’s being watched, yet, so Alastair lets him cry more, squirm, pull futilely at his chains. Alastair has to admit, this is the part he enjoys most. Watching as the poor soul tries to escape, only to slowly realize that this is their life, their eternity. Alastair drinks in their eventual despair with a smile on his face.

Dean’s crying for his brother, which won’t do. Gotta be tougher than that, don’t we, kiddo? Can’t be ready to break already.

Dean’s screams cuts off when he sees Alastair, and he bites his lip, trying to swallow down his hiccups. He schools his face into cool indifference, but his body is quivering frantically; he winces as the involuntary movements tug at the hooks. He’s terrified, the poor boy.

Oh, there isn’t going to be enough time to properly enjoy Dean, he can tell.

“Wish I had more of a welcoming committee,” Alastair smiles, “but it’s just me.”

Dean relaxes a bit. The banter is comforting. He’s used to that, the familiarity visibly cascading down his body in waves. The blatant fear in his eyes slowly fades, but not completely; his chin juts up in fake bravado, hands curling into fists.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” Dean smirks. “Surprised you’re in such good spirits to see me, though. I bet I wasted some of your kids, huh?”

“Well,” Alastair says. “Probably. But I don’t care, really. I can always replace them.”

Dean’s surprised by that. A little thrown out of his element. He’s calculating his next move, eyes darting across Alastair’s face, trying to get some sort of read. Good boy. Not on your turf anymore, are we?

“Let’s have a look at you,” Alastair says, and he makes a move toward Dean, arm raised in a nonthreatening position. Dean snarls and kicks in his chains. _”Be still.”_

Dean’s silent and motionless, body frozen and eyes narrowed as Alastair appraises him, running feather-soft touches across his skin, causing goose bumps to pop up on Dean’s soft skin. Alastair traces the hook that’s piercing a shoulder, dipping his hand into Dean’s blood as Dean inhales.

Alastair grips his chin, running his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip. Dean’s nostrils flare but that’s about all he can do as Alastair’s hands continue to graze his body gently, just learning all the joints, curves, muscles.

“Gotta find the weak spots,” Alastair whispers.

“Don’t have any,” Dean grins cheekily. Alastair leans in close, right by Dean’s ear, breath ghosting by the lobe as Dean trembles.

“Give me an hour. I’ll find each and every one, and you’ll be singing by the time I’m done.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Dean says. “But this isn’t my first torture rodeo.”

Alastair smiles slowly. “It’s your first time with me.” He lets his fingers graze the collar of Dean’s shirt before the nails catch on the fabric, Alastair slowly ripping it down his torso. Dean’s squirming, spitting, _get off me, fucker!_ but Alastair ignores him, continuing until he can pull the shirt off his chest.

“Clothes get in the way, love,” Alastair says. “Believe me, you’re going to be baring every inch of you; clothes are the least of your worries.”

“What, you’re not going to show me around first?” Dean says sardonically, but he’s flushing.

“I’ll give you the grand tour and everything, but it’s really up to you to decide when,” Alastair shrugs, tossing his clothes aside.

Dean’s eyebrows furrow in confusion before his eyes jump to Alastair’s hand, staring at the sharp knife that Alastair’s now holding. His mouth tightens but he looks Alastair dead in the eye, swallowing heavily. He’s steeling himself, getting ready for the inevitable pain. It’s adorable.

“Want me to cut you down?” Alastair asks, tilting his head to the hooks that have Dean strung up like meat. Dean doesn’t bother answering; he knows there isn’t a correct answer. “It’s uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

Dean blows out a breath. “Not my favorite position, but I’ve had worse,” he says, and as much as Alastair can appreciate Dean’s cheek, it’s about time he learns his place. _You’re not in charge here, boy._

“Let’s start with the right arm, shall we?” Alastair says, bringing up his knife. Dean’s eyes are glued to it as Alastair raises it up and places it on his shoulder, slowly making sawing motions as the blade sinks into Dean’s torn up skin. Dean’s eyes pop open but he grits his teeth, biting back the scream that’s threatening to erupt from his throat. He has to admire Dean’s tolerance; he doesn’t start screaming until Alastair hits the bone. The arm tumbles down, out of sight, and Dean’s body sags with the loss of weight. He yells when the change in elevation tugs on his other shoulder, so Alastair places his hand on his hip to keep him balanced. He proceeds to Dean’s left leg, tendon and shards of bone shedding like wool. “So tell me. What were you expecting here, hmm? Is it living up to what you thought?”

Dean’s breathing heavily, lips bitten raw, but Alastair hasn’t carved the sarcasm out of him yet. “Gonna have to give me more than that,” Dean pants, lip curling in a sneer. Alastair curls a hand around the back of his neck and obliges him, slicing off each limb one by one.

Dean’s breaths are growing shallow, eyes fluttering closed. But he wrenches them open again, blinking heavily, not wanting to become completely vulnerable. It’s not working, though, as they start to slip shut again, and he groans desperately in his throat as his body fails him. Alastair lets his fingers slip under Dean’s chin, tipping his head up so he can look into Dean’s fading eyes.

“Don’t go just yet,” Alastair croons. “I need to ask you something first. Now, I’ll put down my blade if you pick one up. Take you off the rack. All you’ve got to do is put souls on. What say you?”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits weakly, and his head slips out of Alastair’s grasp with his last exhale, blood dribbling out of his mouth.

And so ends day one, Alastair thinks with glee. 

:::

_“I'm sorry. This is a very serious, very emotional situation for you. I shouldn't laugh, it's just that—I mean, are they serious? They sent you to torture me?”_

_“You got one chance. One. Tell me who's killing the angels. I want a name.”_

_“You think I'll see all your scary toys and spill my guts?”_

_“Oh, you'll spill your guts, one way or another. I just didn't wanna ruin my shoes.”_

  


_  
**[ year five ]**  
_  


_Alastair sees the room in his mind’s eye._

Days blur into weeks. Months. Years. Alastair tries to spend every possible moment with Dean; when he’s not around Dean, he devises new ways to play. He ignores Lilith’s all too knowing stare, cheerfully tells her that he’s working on it. Tough cookie, this one. Made from the same mold as his father. Gonna need time to wear him down. He waves Lilith away – he needs to get ready.

Five years in, and that sight of Dean waiting for him still gives him chills.

“You know what day it is?” Alastair asks, tilting his head. “Up there?”

He can see Dean racking his brain, swiftly coming up with dates and then discarding them. _His birthday? Sam’s? His first day here?_

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Alastair says, rubbing his thumb up and down the blade of his favorite knife. It burns in his hand; it’s excited too, loves to sink its teeth into Dean’s flesh – it’s twitching in his grip.

Dean’s eyes widen; that’s not the answer he expected. “You gonna give me a card?” he sneers.

Alastair steps closer, his hands gripping Dean’s hips. “Nope.”

He brings the knife to the bridge of Dean’s nose, Dean’s eyes going cross-eyed as he stares at the point. “I’ll let you keep the eyes today,” Alastair says. “I want you to see my gift.”

Dean’s waiting, body tense, coiled, ready to spring. Alastair starts to slice, slowly, down his nose, chin, neck. Dean’s lips are pursed; he doesn’t like it slow. The knife reaches Dean’s chest, and Alastair idly twirls the blade around his clavicle. He drifts down a little lower, starts sketching his name into Dean’s stomach, soft swirls as he dots the ‘i’ with a flourish. The ink starts to run, blending together like a Rorschach painting.

“I may need a new quill,” Alastair says, frowning at his knife. He traces designs across Dean’s skin: little puzzle pieces that he cuts out and lays carefully beside him, smoothing them out so they don’t wrinkle. “What do you think, 1000 or 500 pieces?”

“How about two huge pieces?” Dean says as his eyes follow his scraps of skin. “Don’t think you folks could handle a higher level of difficulty.”

Alastair just smiles and continues outlining until he can lift the skin off like a cloak, draping it over his shoulders. Making a small incision, he cuts a thick strip of muscle and pulls it out, tying it around Dean’s neck. “My amulet for you,” he says, letting it rest against Dean’s chest. Dean grunts and looks down.

“Sweet of you,” he mutters, but his body automatically relaxes under the familiar weight.

Alastair continues doodling, going a little deeper as he creates a blueprint of the Impala, breaking off bits of rib for the car door handles and tire spokes. “It’s black, though,” he says, so he holds a flame close in order to darken the skin. “There, that’s better. Now, we need something for the steering wheel. Suggestions?”

Dean stares at him, eyes going dull with pain. “Whatever.”

“Ah,” Alastair says. “Got it.” He proceeds farther, laying strips of flesh out: they’re in the way. He gently cups his hands around the organ and rubs his thumbs over the aorta. Pulling it out, he trims a small piece of the artery and circles it, placing it in front of the driver’s seat. He nods, satisfied.

Holding Dean’s heart as it starts beating slower and slower in his hand, Alastair beams. “Be my valentine?”

Dean’s chest is gaping open, and he stares down at it, watching as blood dribbles down his torso, disappearing into the abyss. Alastair holds Dean’s heart up to his lips as Dean unintentionally laps at it, so thirsty that anything would do to gain relief. But there is no relief to be had here.

“I’ll put down my blade if you pick one up. What do you say?”

Dean gurgles, saliva dripping over his stilling heart and into his open torso. Sounds like a no. Alastair places his hand over Dean’s eyes, closing them. The lashes flutter against his palm.

:::

_”Now answer the question.”_

_“Or what? You'll work me over? But then, maybe you don't want to. Maybe you're, ah, scared to.”_

_“I'm here, aren't I?”_

_“Not entirely. You left part of yourself back in the Pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?”_

_“You're gonna be disappointed.”_

_“You have not disappointed me so far. Come on. You gotta want a little payback for everything I did to you. For all the pokes and prods. Hm? No? Um...how about for all the things I did to your daddy?”_

  
_  
**[ year twelve ]**  
_  


 _Alastair sees the room in his mind’s eye._

Sometimes Alastair forgets that Dean had a family. Because now, Alastair _is_ his family. Alastair would be slightly jealous, he realizes with some surprise, until he remembers that Dean will never see his brother again. He smiles. It’s a good feeling.

“Wonder what Sam is doing right now?”

No doubt Dean still thinks of his little brother, who by now would be older than him. Except Dean doesn’t know how time works down here. How distressing it would be to know that the years of anguish spent down here were just days up there. Alastair really doesn’t feel like letting him in on the secret just yet. He throws what’s left of Dean’s liver on the floor; Alastair will have to make sure he eats the whole thing next time.

“He’s settled down, you know,” Alastair says, now dipping Dean’s fingertip in a vat of acid and drinking in Dean’s harsh yells. “Happy. Now that his family’s out of the way, he can do what he’s always wanted to do.”

Dean’s breathing heavily, mouth tightened. Probably focusing on the pain rather than Alastair’s words. Really though, this is nothing the boy hasn’t heard before. Nothing that he already hasn’t thought of before.

Alastair finds it ironic that Dean despairs over memories of his family while John rallied around them.

“Do you want to know how long Sam tried to get you out?” Alastair asks, watching Dean’s finger bubble and pop. Dean says nothing, choking back a whimper as Alastair starts peeling his skin away, sprinkling acid on the open wound. Tears of pain begin to trickle down Dean’s face, blood snaking down his cheeks like rivers. “Few months. But I bet that’s not surprising, hmm?”

Dean could never stay quiet for long. “Shut up,” he hisses.

“I’m not lying,” Alastair says, slicing off the dead finger. No use to him now. “Pretty girl. Very protective of Sammy, too. He depends on her now, sometimes doesn’t even think of you.” And Alastair’s right about the girl, after all. Alastair almost continues, almost tells him that his brother is taking comfort from a slut of a demon. He probably would - if he cared. “She takes good care of him. Better than you ever did, he thinks.”

Dean’s neck muscles spasm, his pinky finger straining to submerge itself into the acid. Ah, his boy the masochist. Alastair obliges him, and Dean screams in his ear.

“You did the best you could with Sam, love,” Alastair says. “Just wasn’t good enough.”

Dean shakes his head firmly. “No,” he croaks. “He’s h-happy. All I wanted. All he wanted.”

“Maybe,” Alastair shrugs. “Just a pity that he could only be happy when you’re not around.”

Dean shakes his head weakly and closes his eyes, biting his lip against the agony.

Alastair lays his fingers under Dean’s chin, tilting his head up. “You’ll always have me, though, hmm?” He’s not surprised when he gets a glob of spit to the face.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Alastair chastises. His thumb traces circles around the apple of Dean’s cheek, watching as the acid sizzles and disappears into the skin, leaving smoky rings in its wake. It’s beautiful; the burnt skin looking like tattoos of dark tie dye. Dean’s yelling hoarsely, and drops hit his tongue with a splash. He’s sweating with exertion, throwing his head back as the acid mixes with the beads at his hairline, the drops slipping into his eyes.

Alastair’s quiet. This part always renders him speechless; the last moments of life, weak human flesh shaking pathetically as it does its best to sustain itself. Dean’s beyond screaming now, just weak hiccups, and his face is almost completely peeled away. Finally, Dean exhales his last breath, eyes fluttering closed. As close to death as one can get here, anyway. Brief moment of reprieve for the poor soul, a chance to dream, to rest. To forget where he is, what’s going to happen to him when he opens his eyes again. Alastair sinks into the pool of blood, stares at Dean’s feet, the only part of him left unscathed. Feels the same way he always does when Dean’s gone: cold. Empty. 

“Hey.”

Alastair runs his fingers through Dean’s blood, feels the connection to Dean that only it can offer. He cups it in his palm and brings it to his nose, inhaling. The smell of copper fills his nostrils. He wants to feel Dean, have a part of Dean. “Yes, child?”

“Don’t call me that,” Meg spits.

“What else would you like me to call you? That human name you cling to? Pathetic.”

Meg sneers but doesn’t answer, just watches Dean’s corpse with interest. “Let me have a day.”

Alastair’s eyes drift lazily over to her. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” she whines. “Just once.”

“Give me a break,” Alastair says. “I’ve already told you. You’ve got decades to go, little girl. I’d laugh at your deplorable attempts. _Dean_ would laugh, and I’m not wasting the years I’ve spent on him for you to humiliate yourself. And myself, by association.“

“I’ve got to be ready sometime,” Meg says.

“You’ll be ready when I say you are,” Alastair says coldly. “And at the moment you’re going in the wrong direction, so I’d silence yourself right now and show me some damn respect.”

Meg’s quiet, and Alastair leans over to pick up one of Dean’s ribs, using it to scrap Dean’s teeth – still some pieces of liver in there. Meg crinkles her nose in memory of the taste. Alastair picks up a piece. “Still some left, child.”

“No thanks,” Meg drawls, and she reaches out to touch Dean’s cold thigh. Alastair watches and lets her, her fingers peeling dead skin in clean strips. “So. I understand you’ve been a bit busy, but have you forgotten about me? My training and all?”

“You jealous of the new baby?” Alastair asks.

“No,” Meg scowls. “I just didn’t expect to be completely tossed aside because you got a new toy.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Alastair says. He’s lying.

Meg knows better to press the issue. “You didn’t ask him today,” she observes, wrapping the skin around her index finger. “Are you getting too attached?” she laughs. “ _You?_ How humiliating. Now _I’m_ embarrassed to be affiliated with _you_.”

“You don’t have to be my student anymore,” Alastair says quietly. “I can take care of that.”

Meg shudders. “No, that’s okay.” She’s silent for a moment. “Is it because you thought there was small chance he’d say yes today?”

Alastair picks up one of Dean’s hands, tracing the lines of his palm. “When he says yes,” Alastair says, “it’ll be when I want him to.”

:::

_”John Winchester. Made a good name for himself. A hundred years. After each session, I'd make him the same offer I made you. I'd put down my blade if he picked one up.”_

_“Just give me the demon's name, Alastair.”_

_“But he said nein each and every time. Oh, damned if I couldn't break him. Pulled out all the stops, but John, he was, well, made of something unique. The stuff of heroes. And then came Dean. Dean Winchester. I thought I was up against it again. But daddy's little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty. Oh, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”_

  
_  
**[ year eighteen ]**  
_  


“You’re taking too long.”

“What can I say,” Alastair shrugs. “He’s a tough nut to break.” Nut. Nutcracker. Knuckles. Roasting on an open fire.

He knows what he’s doing today.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Lilith says wryly. “Then you can be the one to explain to Lucifer why he’s going to have to remain in the cage even longer. Don’t take me for a fool.”

“A fool?” Alastair parrots. Lilith shakes her head.

“You’re fond of him,” she says. “I get it. But you need to end it.”

Alastair shakes his head. It’s not a negation. “It’s been a while for you, Lilith. You’ve forgotten.”

“Maybe,” she acquiesces. “But I’m the one who has to answer to Him, and I’m not willing to take the blame here just because you’re getting your rocks off.”

Alastair leans back and smiles. “I can’t stop,” he says simply. Because really, what else is there to say?

“No, you don’t _want_ to stop,” Lilith says. “You know how to break him. You’re just putting it off.”

She’s right, of course. He knows.

But he’s not willing to give him up just yet.

:::

_Alastair sees the room in his mind’s eye._

“Let’s talk about you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh, now it’s share and care time?”

Alastair tosses his knife away. “We could take a break, just for today.” He sits down, crosses his legs. “Anything you want to get off your chest?” He leers. “Besides the obvious.”

Dean shakes his head casually. “Nope, I’m good.”

“You don’t wonder who else is here?” Alastair asks. “Friends of yours? Family members, perhaps? Don’t you ever think about who ends up where after they shuffle off that mortal coil?”

Dean’s breathing a bit quicker, but he remains silent. Alastair doesn’t miss the way his eyes have glanced at the knife with longing.

“Where _do_ spirits go after you salt and burn their bones?” Alastair asks. “You think you’re doing right by them, yes? Releasing them from their torment? Setting them free? What if you’re just dooming them to a life of damnation?”

“I’m not,” Dean says tightly.

Alastair raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Dean bits his lip and looks away. His chest is heaving and beads of sweat are collecting at his hairline. They drip down his clean, unmarred face, and he looks so wrong, so distorted without Alastair’s claim on him. Alastair’s fingers start twitching, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to withhold slicing into him. He digs a little deeper.

“What about daddy?”

Dean shakes his head confidently. “No. He’s out.”

“Right,” Alastair nods. “Slipped out when you and Sammy opened the gate, right?” He neglects to mention that he may have misplaced the keys to John’s cuffs. “Do you understand how a deal works, Dean?”

Dean’s head swivels, eyes wide. Never has Alastair referred to Dean by his given name, after all. “No? Well, our deals? Don’t become null and void. They can’t be broken or retracted. Once the deal is made, we _own_ you. Compare it to a tracking device, if you will. A brand.”

Dean’s shaking his head quickly, but Alastair plows on. “Your daddy just disappeared, right? You assumed he didn’t come back here. But we don’t let our own go that easily, kiddo. He’s here, and you have no idea where.” Alastair almost continues, almost tells him about his mother, sweet little Mary, who baked cookies with him and laughed softly when he tried to feed baby Sammy the batter. Who played hide and seek with him while he picked the same hiding spot every time. Mary, who pretended to not know where he was while he giggled under the clean towels in the laundry room. Who brushed his hair off his forehead when he got sick and held his quivering little body as he heaved.

Who made a deal just like the rest of this pathetic, needy family. But he tells himself to save that for another day.

“He’s out,” Dean repeats, but it’s much weaker; his voice is quaking.

“He knows you’re here, too,” Alastair continues. “Hasn’t even tried to help you. Face it, you were the weak link in that family, and you know it. Here, though?” He leans forward and cups Dean’s cheek. Dean leans into the touch. “You could make a name for yourself. Be respected, wanted. You’d never be overlooked or belittled again. You were desperate for daddy’s approval, I know. But he made you feel small. Insignificant.” He runs his thumb along Dean’s bottom lip and Dean’s mouth automatically opens for a moment. “But if you say yes, you’ll never have to feel that way again. Say yes, and it’s all over.”

Dean’s jaw turns rigid underneath his fingertips as he stares directly over Alastair’s head.

“Come on, save yourself the grief, all right? “ Alastair says, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s jaw to turn it toward him. “I’ll put down my blade if you pick one up. What do you say?”

Dean’s completely still, eyes huge. He’s quiet for a few moments. The walls of Hell seem to hold its breath. _Not yet what are you doing tell me no. I’m not ready for this to be over._

Dean inhales sharply and shakes his head once, but it’s so tentative that Alastair almost misses it. Dean tucks his chin against his chest and closes his eyes, not seeing the relief on Alastair’s face.

  
_  
**[ year twenty-two ]**  
_  


“Open up,” Alastair croons, gripping Dean’s jaw and forcing it agape. Dean gags but he has no choice to accept the hot coals that Alastair drops down his throat. He groans and coughs, drool spilling onto Alastair’s hands.

Alastair loves to sing. He knows each and every one of Dean’s favorite songs, favorite bands and he took pleasure singing softly into Dean’s ear, but typically the ear didn’t stay attached for long. Alastair doesn’t know if Dean suffers more when he can hear the song or he can’t, so Alastair makes sure he does a bit of both. Just to switch it up every now and then. After twenty-two years, though, Dean would lean forward to read Alastair’s lips as he sang, eyes hungrily taking in the words and sifting through them in his head, breaking them down piece by piece. Sometimes Dean would sing along, but only if he had lips.

“ _Tell me, is something eluding you, sunshine?_ ” Alastair murmurs as Dean coughs and chokes the coals down, finally being able to scream once they plop into his stomach.

“Never,” Dean wheezes, “liked that song.”

“ _Is this not what you expected to see?_ ” Alastair smiles, placing his hands on Dean’s stomach and putting pressure on the coals that are still scorching Dean’s insides. “Oh, right,” Alastair says. “Your mother used to sing The Beatles, yes?”

“Had better pipes than you, too,” Dean wheezes, throat raspy.

“Would you like me to grab her for you? I could get her to sing instead, if you like.”

Dean’s so predictable; his eyes are downcast as he swallows in his burnt throat. Alastair’s not sure if Dean believes him or not, but it’s enough.

“That’s all you have of Mommy, right? Some songs?”

“She made fucking awesome applesauce, too,” Dean says, raising his head in defiance. That shield is coming up again, but Alastair feels the underlying tremor in his voice, the despair he feels as he reduces his mother to such simple ideas, as he strips her of everything she is.

“Wow,” Alastair says. “Four whole years with her, and all she’s got is a voice and some great culinary skills. Sweet of you, kiddo.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering. Probably thinks that if he keeps quiet, Alastair will move on to another topic or tip more coals into his mouth. Silly boy.

“So how come she apologized to Sam, and not you?”

Dean’s head swivels up. “Huh?”

“You remember,” Alastair says. “When you had to go back to your childhood home? Where your mother would feed your baby brother that applesauce while daddy lobbed you a baseball to your little glove in your backyard? Where you got chastised for letting little Sammy eat sand in your sandbox? Where your daddy didn’t answer your tearful phone call, begging him to come and help you?”

Dean’s mouth is open in surprise, smoke pouring out of his mouth and swirling around his nose. “How –“

“I thought you’d have learned by now,” Alastair says, disappointed. “Our first day together, when I told you you’d bare every inch of yourself to me? You think I don’t know everything about you?”

Dean closes his mouth with a snap. “You can’t know all of me,” he says quietly.

“Well, we’ve got plenty of time for me to learn everything!” Alastair says. “But let’s go back to Mary, shall we? She didn’t have much time, a whole lot of opportunity to say anything, but she chose to spend her words on Sam.”

“She said my name,” Dean says pathetically. “And she didn’t have anything to apologize to me for.”

“Why did she apologize to Sam, then?” Alastair asks. “What did she do to him that she didn’t do to you?”

Dean’s face crumples, because he doesn’t know, has no idea. Has probably spent hours upon hours wondering that himself, but he doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to know why. Dean’s just so easy, so sensitive, so insecure, that he’ll believe anything thrown at him that implies he’s not worth anything. He’s not able to take the other perspective, that he actually had people who were fond of him. Alastair’s not going to show him that, though. Soon he’ll get Dean to believe that the only person who is fond of Dean is Alastair himself. And that Dean will grow fond of Alastair in turn.

“It’s all right,” Alastair says with mock concern. “We don’t have to talk about it today. We can talk about something else.”

Dean’s body is limp now: there’s no life in him, eyes dull and staring straight ahead, exhaling small, weak puffs of air. Nothing Alastair says brings that spark back as Dean simply stares straight through him, and Alastair sighs to himself: it’s John Winchester all over again.

“I’ll put down my blade if you pick one up. What do you say?” he asks mechanically, and he’s not surprised when he receives no answer. Sadly, Alastair guts him in one swift motion.

Bad day, today.

:::

_”Now we're getting somewhere. Holy water? Come on. Grasshopper, you're gonna have to get creative to impress me.”_

_“You know something, Alastair? I could still dream. Even in hell. And over and over and over, you know what I dreamt? I dreamt of this moment. And believe me, I got a few ideas. Let's get started.”_

  
_  
**[ year twenty-eight ]**  
_  


 _Alastair sees the room in his mind’s eye. It’s time._

Alastair’s managed to avoid conversations with Lilith over the years. She’s busy, after all, but it doesn’t mean he hasn’t felt her eyes burning into his back as she watches Alastair peel off Dean’s freckles.

He’s not getting out of this one, though.

“I’ve been too lenient with you,” Lilith says. She’s serious now. “You’re done. I’m giving him to someone else.”

He reckons this is what panic feels like. Doesn’t like it, much. “I told you I knew how to break him,” Alastair hisses.

“Exactly!” Lilith says. “You know, and you’ve been putting it off. This isn’t a fucking joke, Alastair. I know you don’t care about the war, and I’ve been keeping that to myself. I’ve given you extra time, but it’s over now, understand?”

“Give him to someone else, and he may never break,” Alastair says. “Not for decades more, anyway.” But he doesn’t give two fucks about that. Just the thought of Dean under someone else’s hand makes him shake with rage. That skin being marred and claimed by another, by someone far less competent and deserving. Nobody will understand Dean the way he does, _nobody._ And the thought of someone even trying makes him want to rip himself apart.

“Then you do it!” Lilith explodes. “I’m through with waiting around. Do it now, or I’m taking him away from you and giving Lucifer your bones once he gets out!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alastair mutters, but she’s gone.

:::

Alastair is the first person to truly enjoy being on the rack.

It took fifty years for his demon to recognize that. To his credit, Alastair did a fantastic job at conveying agony and anguish, and it took every ounce of his being to not laugh along with Abaddon as he was sliced open year after year. By the fourth decade Abaddon was baffled, his attempts slowing. Perhaps he was losing confident in his abilities, Alastair smiled. That’s certainly what Abaddon’s peers believed; Alastair’s rack quickly became the center of attention, demons crowding around in a circle as they pointed and jeered.

Once Abaddon saw that Alastair enjoyed it, his attempts grew even more brutal and he got more and more angry. Other demons offered to take over - _let me show you how to make a soul cry, Abby -_ but that only infuriated him. He wanted to be the one to break Alastair, but he was slowly losing control, his frustration causing him to become blind with rage.

It took him another fifty years to realize that breaking Alastair by the typical method wasn’t going to work. So he created the room. And now, Alastair’s going to share it with Dean.

Dean sneers at him. “What’s it going to be today, Chief? Some whipping, maybe? Eye-gouging?”

“Nah,” Alastair says. “I thought we’d try something a little…different today.”

Uncertainty dances across Dean’s face for a moment before it hardens back into indifference. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmm,” Alastair says. He reaches up to unchain Dean, pulling his wrists and ankles out of their confines. Dean hisses as feeling sparks in his limbs, and he nearly collapses onto Alastair’s chest. “I’d enjoy this while you can,” Alastair advises. Alastair knows he is.

Dean’s mouth twitches; he doesn’t want to ask, but he will, because he can never shut the fuck up. Always running that mouth.

Another reason why Alastair loves him. Dean fights him every step of the way, pushes every one of his buttons. _Feisty._

“Enjoy what?”

"This." Alastair runs a finger up and down his cheek, and he expects Dean to pull away – but Dean lets Alastair caress his face before he leans back with a slight reluctance. 

That uncertain look is back. “What?”

“I won’t lie to you,” Alastair says. “I really don’t want to have to do this. This method hasn’t been used in millennia.” _Since me, and only me._ “But let’s just say, I think it’ll do for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean hisses, twisting in Alastair’s grip. Alastair takes his hand, fingers dipping deep into the sensitive - _always so sensitive, always knits up so nicely -_ skin of Dean’s wrist, leading him along. Dean follows, but he’s not quiet, firing insults and crude words at him, but he’s not resisting, either. He’s curious. A fine quality.

It’s rather anti-climactic, really. It’s just a room. Bare, walls so white it’s nearly blinding, and Dean’s blinking rapidly. Absence of color isn’t too common down here.

Alastair curls a hand around Dean’s head, toying with his earlobe. “You know what some people think Hell is?”

Dean’s silent for a moment, look of reproach on his face. “Nope,” he says finally.

“Hmm,” Alastair says. “Some say that Hell is isolation from God. The knowledge that there is an all powerful being that created them in love. Someone that just wanted His creation to choose Him. To adore Him. To be with Him for all eternity.”

Dean’s eyes are cautious, but his sarcasm isn’t lost yet. “Well, good thing I don’t believe in God, then.”

“See, that really doesn’t matter to me,” Alastair says. “The intention behind this little experiment is still the same.”

“What little experiment?” Dean asks, and his breathing picks up just enough for Alastair to notice. Good.

Alastair tugs Dean in against his chest, wrapping him up in a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

Dean’s eyes widen – he must be wondering if Alastair’s giving him up, passing him onto someone else. There’s panic there – _where am I going, what’s happening_ – but more importantly, _why are you leaving me?_

There’s a twinge in Alastair’s chest as he shoves Dean into the room and seals the door closed. The wall swallows up the opening until it completely disappears, and Alastair can hear shouting, banging, kicking. Alastair doesn’t bother responding.

Dean can’t hear anything, anyway.

:::

Alastair remembers his time in the room. Wasn’t so bad, at first.

It took a few days for him to truly understand what was happening. He can’t hear the shrieking of souls, the demons’ sneers. He can’t smell the sweet copper, the smoke. Can’t feel his skin being flayed inch by inch. He works his tongue around his mouth: can’t even taste that unique aftertaste of blood mixed with his saliva. Can’t even see where he is, what’s with him, if he’s being watched or is just completely alone. He feels boneless, weightless, like his own body doesn’t exist.

There’s just nothing.

Alastair was told afterward that he was there for ten years, but it could have been centuries and he wouldn’t have known. Because this? This is torture. He needs it, needs the pain, the challenge. He’s too clean, too whole, but at the same time he’s nothing at all. At first he practices, speaking out loud despite the fact that he can’t hear. He wonders if he’s speaking at all - _is there anyone around to hear him?_ His skin feels like it’s itching, a deep burn he can’t scratch, but he fumbles for his arm, for his skin, tries to dig his nails into his flesh. But he has no idea, no idea if he even has skin anymore, if there is anything for his nails to even sink into. If he even exists anymore. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is what happens _after_ , just spending eternity wondering who you are, where you are. If there is anyone else out there, if he’s just been tossed someplace where only God can find him. If there’s anyone left for someone to find.

By the time that door opens, Alastair’s skin is as smooth and whole as it’s ever been. Which just can’t be, he spent forever tearing at himself, needing to feel that torment, that anguish. He should be a sopping mess, but he’s clean, so clean that the first thing he does is vomit. He vomits again when the first voice he hears is Abaddon’s rather than his own.

_”You’re completely useless to us on the rack, understand? You’re useless to me. Waste of my time. So if you don’t say yes right now, I throw you back in there and you don’t ever come back out.”_

Suddenly, the idea of laughing at Abaddon from the rack isn’t so funny anymore.

Alastair’s only going to leave Dean in there for three years. He won’t be able to stay away from Dean for that long; he’s not sure who is being tortured more by this, anyway. He wonders if this is how Abaddon felt.

The days crawl by with Alastair in a daze. He walks by the room every day and listens. At first, he hears the swearing, fists banging - _I’ll fucking kill you, each and every one, let me out you fucking pussies, face me_ \- and he pictures Dean’s mute mouth moving as if it believes that it still has a purpose. He’s proud that Dean’s going the same way he did. They’re more alike than Dean realizes, but this is going to bring them together, this is going to make Dean see that. Alastair has to force himself to move on.

Lilith keeps telling him that he needs to finish it up, but Alastair shakes his head. He’ll know when Dean’s done. He knows what that feels like. It’s not time yet.

Alastair’s not sure how long it’s been when he passes by one day and there’s no cursing, no banging. He can hear heavy breathing though, hitching sobs that are desperately trying to be suppressed.

Ah. Almost there. Alastair avoids the room for some time; he’s too eager. He’s afraid he’ll open the door a little too early and ruin the progress. But it’s torture, and although Alastair will never again feel the way he did in the room, it’s the first time since that he’s felt suffering.

By the time Alastair tells himself he won’t open the door until he’s sure Dean’s ready, he walks by and he hears no breathing, no crying. Nothing. He leans against the wall and slides down to sit on the floor, hoping that Dean is leaning adjacent him. It’s the closest he’s felt to his boy in years, and he takes a moment to prepare himself. Dean’s ready.

Finally, he places his hand on the wall and it spits out the door. Tugging it open, he finds Dean on the floor, curled into a ball. No longer are the walls pure white; smears of red paint it in cruel mockery, and Alastair leans over to take Dean’s hand in his.

Alastair’s a little surprised. Fingernails are gone, fingers themselves mangled, bent and distorted. There are bloody handprints left on the door. Maybe this is how Abaddon saw him, after all. Alastair can’t remember, and for a moment he’s stunned, lost in memories of a time that may never have existed. He blinks when he sees moving legs, and he comes back to himself.

“Dean,” Alastair whispers, and Dean twitches on the ground as he keens, low and long. Alastair simply sits there and takes Dean into his lap, shushing him as Dean groans and twists and cries, the flooding return sensation hurting his eyes and ears. Carefully running his fingers through Dean’s hair, Alastair massages his scalp.

He whispers. “I’ll take you off the rack if you put souls on. What say you?”

It’s quiet, but Dean’s muttering something frantically into his thigh – he’s becoming more aware, more used to sensation, and he grips Alastair’s hand as he cries. Alastair lifts his chin up and looks him in the eye.

“Yesyesyesyes,” Dean’s babbling, eyes huge and wild. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Please. Yes.”

Alastair shushes him again and tugs him up so Dean’s head can rest on his shoulder. “No more, love. It’s over. No more.”

Dean shakes in his arms, weak and feeble, and Alastair feels a surge of protectiveness. Dean has been cracked for a long time, but now Alastair’s cradling broken glass. It’s all right – he’ll rebuild Dean, better than before, smooth over the fractures and fissures until he’s like new, clean, glistening. An empty canvas on which Alastair can paint.

Alastair’s part in the war is over, and now he can truly enjoy his spoils.

  
_  
**[ year thirty ]**  
_  


 _Alastair doesn’t see the room for a long time._

“Finally,” Lilith says, watching Dean pick up a knife and stare at it with trepidation. He’s like a weak little lamb who’s standing for the first time, legs shaking as he swallows heavily. His thumb traces the tip of the blade: blood bubbles, and he relaxes visibly. Familiar territory. Pain, he can handle.

“Only took thirty years, you lazy fuck,” Ruby sneers, and Alastair was so distracted by watching his new protégé that he didn’t even notice her presence.

Alastair smirks at her. “At least I’m having fun. How’s it going with your Winchester, hmm? From the sound of it, you seem to be getting a little too attached to him.”

Ruby curls her upper lip. “And you aren’t? But unlike you, I’ve only had three months. Anyone could have broken Dean in thirty years.”

 _Not anyone,_ Alastair thinks, and it must show on his face because Ruby withdraws a bit. “What brings you down here, anyway? Don’t you have topside business to take care of?”

“I’m not allowed to visit anymore?” Ruby asks sarcastically, but Alastair doesn’t miss her eyes as they flick over in Lilith’s direction.

Lilith rolls her eyes at both of them and nods her head toward Dean again, who by now has moved on to the other instruments that Alastair’s laid out for him. He gets it. She wants to talk with Ruby alone. He obliges and backs off, simply choosing to watch Dean in his new habitat. Alastair wants Dean to get settled in a bit first, but mostly he appreciates the sight, because this is who Dean is. Their time together is truly beginning, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to imagine what it’s going to be like to watch Dean grow into his new skin.

The next time he blinks, Lilith is by his side and Ruby’s gone. “Should probably keep an eye on that one,” Alastair says.

“How about you just leave that to me,” Lilith says with one last look at Dean. “Enjoy it.”

Oh, he will.

:::

“You know how to use it,” Alastair says. “Stop looking at it like it’s going to bite you.”

Dean’s eyes jump up from the knife and he scowls, his grip tightening. “Sorry, I wasn’t exactly taught using human flesh.”

“You really think it’s any different?” Alastair says. “I don’t know if I should be amused or embarrassed that you’re that naïve.”

Dean runs his thumb along the side again in the exact way Alastair does: it’s unconscious, and Alastair feels a giggle bubble up in his chest. 

“Ready?” Alastair asks, and he watches Dean’s chest as he takes a deep breath, exhaling with a whoosh.

“Yes,” Dean says.

“I’m not starting you off easy,” Alastair says. “Sink or swim time.”

“Fine,” Dean says easily, but his eyes betray his nervousness. “Lead the way, Chief.”

Alastair claps him on the shoulder and keeps his hand there, guiding him. “You know this soul.”

Dean stops in his tracks and needs Alastair to give him a push to get him going again. “What?”

“It’s not someone you like,” Alastair says with a laugh. “I’m not going to be _that_ mean to you on your first day, kiddo!”

“Who –“

“Shh,” Alastair hushes. “You’ll see.”

Alastair leads him through hundreds of thousands of screaming souls, all eyeing Dean with hatred – or more likely, jealousy – as they walk. Dean keeps his eyes down and only looks up when Alastair stops him, steering him around so that Dean’s directly in front of him. Placing both hands on his shoulders, Alastair cheerfully says “Here we are!”

Dean looks up, and his eyes widen.

“You have _got_ to be shitting me,” the soul says.

Dean turns around. “Bela?” he scoffs. “You brought me to fucking _Bela_?”

“Would you prefer someone else?” Alastair asks.

Dean turns back around and looks her up and down as Bela curses and thrashes, complete and utter rage distorting her features in a most unbecoming way.

“No,” he says. “She’s okay.”

:::

“You’ve gotta mean it,” Alastair says.

Dean sighs in frustration as blood drips from his knife, which is hanging loosely by his side. He’s shaking, looking like he’s about to puke. His own hands are covered with hesitation marks. Biting his lip, he raises the knife again and appraises Bela, looking for a spot he hasn’t attacked yet.

Dean’s too quick. He doesn’t understand the art yet, the idea of slowly taking a person apart, with precision, with special care. He’s just hacking away, and it’s embarrassing to watch. Bela’s simply one ugly, mangled mess.

“What makes you so special?” She snarls, or tries to as best she can with her mandible slowly separating from her face. Drool slips out of her mouth, thick with blood as it drops to the floor, coagulating at her feet. Dean leans in, cups her jaw gently as he raises it up to her face. She flails and kicks, but is completely helpless, and she knows it. “You dun d’srve it,” she froths. “You sh’ld be h’re, of all pe’ple. I sh’ld be the one sl’cing you up –“

That’s enough of that, and for the first time Alastair sees Dean’s shoulders square up in determination. Seems like the girl hit a nerve, Alastair thinks as Dean rips her mandible away. Bela’s scream is off-pitch, her head thrown back in agony as bloody tears slink down her face and into her ripped open mouth: teeth completely bare, with nothing to sink into to express her agony.

“You can do better,” Alastair says, and Dean’s shoulders slump in disappointment.

“Again?” Dean mutters.

“Hmm?”

“Again. Let me try again,” Dean repeats. His lip is bitten raw but his eyes are pleading.

“Of course,” Alastair nods, and suddenly Bela’s clean, whole. Fresh and ready for round two.

The fire’s there. Just needs some kindling, is all.

  
**  
_[ year thirty-two ]_  
**  


Dean’s doing much better. Not great, but good. He needs to test his progress, so Alastair takes Dean back to Bela. She overflows with resentment; there’s no reason to let her off just yet, and she’s furious that Dean, who came after her, is free. Nobody cares enough about the poor soul, and she knows it. Dean doesn’t know yet - she said yes long ago, but demons aren’t too keen on souls who give in so quickly. The ones who spend the most time on the rack are the most loyal, after all.

Dean makes her cry even before he takes a knife to her skin. Alastair has to wipe away a proud tear himself.

  
**  
_[ year thirty-five ]_  
**  


Alastair hasn’t seen Meg in years, and he’s surprised to learn that he’s completely forgotten about her. He’s not too happy that she’s interrupting Dean in the middle of his training, though.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” Meg snarls. “You waltz in here and just get everything handed to you, don’t you? You know how long I’ve been here? Longer than you could possibly dream, boy.”

Dean’s not fazed; he’s got a satisfied smile plastered on his face. “You must really suck, then,” he says. “Do you want to settle this once and for all? I’d be glad to take you on.”

Alastair doesn’t alert them of his presence just yet. He’s intrigued.

Meg tilts her head. “The stakes?”

“Whoever can make their soul break first wins,” Dean says. Then adds: “I’ll even give you a weaker one, just to balance it out.”

Meg sputters. “Oh, fuck you.” She looks up and finally notices Alastair watching them. “Alastair can pick,” she says. “As long as he promises to leave his favoritism at the door,” she adds with contempt.

“You realize that means he’ll just make it tougher on me, right?” Dean says. “Being that I’ve got a lot more to live up to, and all.”

Meg looks like she’s just barely restrained herself from stomping her foot. “Alastair?”

“You’re asking me to judge you two?” Alastair says. And people say demons can’t feel affection. “The prize?”

Dean and Meg look at each other. “I get Alastair,” Meg says finally. “For five years. You take a fucking hike and don’t look back.”

Dean’s lip quirks. “So you’re admitting you need extra tutoring?”

Meg narrows her eyes before a slow grin spreads across her face. “Fine. How about this, then? I get you on my rack. For ten years.” She crosses her arms across her chest and smiles widely, baring her teeth.

There’s a flare of anger that swoops in Alastair’s stomach for a moment, that she has the nerve to try to stake her claim, but he laughs to himself. Interesting. He has to give Meg credit; at the very least, she’s stubborn. But she doesn’t stand a chance.

Alastair’s proud to notice that Dean doesn’t even blink. “And what do I get when I win?”

Meg thinks for a moment. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t want me for ten years then, huh?”

Dean crinkles his nose. “No, thanks. How about –“ he breaks off to give a huff of laughter. “How about you can’t come back here for say, ten years.”

Meg stares at him. “You’re serious?”

“Yep.”

She pauses for a second, and Alastair sees when the question pops into her head. “I have to stay topside for ten years? Ten years up there?”

Meg’s being careful in her phrasing, covering the possible loophole. Her eyes flit to Alastair for a moment. He shakes his head slightly. A grin is threatening to curl her lips but she bites down on them, lowering her eyes to stare at her feet. She looks scared, nervous – like someone who doesn’t know how long ten years is topside.

Somehow spending a month upstairs doesn’t seem so bad when there’s a chance of getting Dean on her rack.

She blows out a breath, lips pursed as if she’s in deep thought. Dean’s watching her with a smirk, believing her ruse, and Alastair almost shakes his head in disappointment. It’s easy to forget that he’s only been training for five years, and while he is already proving to be all that Alastair wants and more - _the hunger is there in those eyes_ \- these little foibles need to go.

“Deal!” Meg finally declares, setting her jaw in determination. She takes a step forward. “Shall we kiss on it?”

Dean’s eyes flick down to her lips for a second. “It may have been a long time since I’ve gotten any, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but I’m not willing to let you be the one to break the dry spell.”

“If you’re sure,” she sing-songs. “But the offer still stands if you ever want to cash in.”

Dean just scoffs and shakes his head before looking over at Alastair. He shrugs: _well?_

Alastair’s pleasantly surprised by Meg’s zeal. She’s tearing into her soul with a fierceness he’s never seen before. He has to say, though, she’s reminding him of Dean’s first time: she lacks the finesse and craftsmanship that a true artist possesses. Dean’s moving much slower, leaning in close to whisper soft words of mocking comfort. His soul is still relatively clean, and the incisions are neat, tight. Drawn with precision that belies decades of experience.

Meg knows she’s losing, and while she may want Dean on her rack, she wants to win for the sake of winning even more. Her eyes keep darting over to Dean and his soul, and she’s losing concentration, energy flagging as she gets more and more frustrated. Her soul realizes this as he begins to laugh, loud and booming. Within moments he’s in charge, laying barrage after barrage of insults and degradation. She’s angry, and she’s unable to hold her knife back, and she stabs him over and over, screaming with rage while her soul keeps laughing until he longer has breath.

Dean takes no notice of her breakdown; he’s steadily and diligently working as Meg watches, her knife slipping limply out of her grip. Only moments later, Alastair hears the poor soul sobbing for relief and Dean’s calm – _I’ll put down my blade if you pick one up. What do you say?_

_Anything, please, just stop hurting me. Please, stop!_

Alastair can only see Dean’s profile, but Dean’s jaw twitches in a small smile as he releases the soul from the rack and holds the knife toward him. Hesitantly, the soul takes it and swallows heavily.

Alastair’s chest puffs with pride. It’s a moment, just a moment, but when Dean turns to look at him, it’s almost as if his eyes turn black.

  
**  
_[ year thirty-eight ]_  
**  


“We’ve got this soul over here, who murdered her husband for insurance money,” Alastair announces, gesturing to his left. “Or this lovely gentleman over here. Took his job of taking care of children a bit too literally.”

Both souls are squirming on their racks, eyes huge in their face. Fresh meat. Dean’s face is twisted in disgust, although it’s a look that has slowly been losing its potency over the years. If Alastair looks close enough, he can see the glee that’s hiding behind Dean’s upturned nose.

“Which one do you want?” Alastair asks.

Dean eyes them one at a time. “Can’t I have both?”

Alastair smiles. “Of course you can, kiddo,” he says, running fingers through Dean’s hair. “Of course you can.”

“Good,” Dean nods. “Keep them coming.”

  
**  
_[ year forty ]_  
**  


The angels show up forty years too late.

Dean’s confused. He backs away from the angel approaching him, lip curled and body coiled, ready for a fight.

He doesn’t want to go. Frantically he takes another step away from the angel and toward Alastair, looking at Alastair with desperation. _Stop_ and _help me_ and _get them the fuck out of here._ Alastair does none of those things. Simply moves backward. The look of betrayal on Dean’s face is piercing, but Alastair just gives him a small smile.

It’ll be all right. He’ll get Dean back, maybe after he lets Dean get used to being topside again, to sleeping, eating, being warm and comfortable. Not being stuck in dark, the constant copper stench, the constant screams, but Dean’s quick to adapt.

Alastair’s counting on that. He wants to see Dean’s face as he smells clean air, pops open a beer. Realizes that not much time has passed, that he hasn’t been left behind, after all. Watch as Dean sees Sam again, a Sam who hasn’t aged, who hasn’t forgotten about him. Watch as he sees the relief explode on Dean’s face that he still has his brother. See what would happen to the Dean that only Alastair knows, as Dean battles with which person he really is.

Alastair wonders how long it’ll take for Dean to break again. Another thirty years? Fifty?

A week?

Alastair resolves to learn new tricks before he brings Dean home. He watches as the angel takes hold of his boy, as Dean gives one last look of desperation - _why are you letting me go?_

It’s all right, Dean. Won’t be long now, kiddo.

:::

Dean’s tainted now.

He’s got that angel smell – but Alastair’s going to have fun stripping that off, piece by piece. That permanent burn on his arm; a handprint that doesn’t belong to Alastair. He imagines what he’s going to do with that scar, what kind of art he can create using it.

Alastair wants it gone.

He has to admit that it’s interesting to watch. Nobody has ever been brought out of Hell and been placed back on Earth before. He wants to see what happens, how Dean deals with it. He’s not sure if he’s upset or amused that Dean doesn’t remember. That Dean was able to forget about Alastair and their time together, that he’s that easily forgettable. He wonders if the angel took care of the memories along with the scars.

Finally, he makes contact. He doesn’t realize how alone he’s felt until he sees the fear in Dean’s eyes. Dean remembers. He may not remember everything, but he remembers Alastair. It’s rather annoying, though, as Dean’s got protectors – he’s not going to be easy to claim again. That angel stands in the way.

Surprisingly, salvation appears in the form of another angel while he’s eating pieces of imitation shrimp in some diner, about two hundred miles away from Dean. Two-twelve, to be exact, but who’s counting?

“Want some?” Alastair says. “They’re actually pretty good.”

“No thanks,” Uriel says dryly, sliding in the booth across from him. He keeps his legs tucked close to his seat: he doesn’t want to come close to touching such an abomination. Alastair lazily raises a hand, and Uriel must think that Alastair is trying to banish him.

“Hey, hey,” Uriel says, holding his hands up. “We’re on the same side, here. I want to make you an offer.”

“It took you this long?” Alastair says.

Uriel doesn’t waste any time. “I can get you what you want.”

“Oh?” Alastair asks, tilting his head. “And what exactly is it I want?”

Uriel’s watching him with a small smile. “You don’t care about this war.”

Perhaps Lilith is the only one who knows that, although he thought it was fairly obvious. Still, he has a part to play, an image to project to Heaven’s must humble servants. “You don’t think so?”

“Look,” Uriel begins, “you can’t get what you want because of Heaven’s tail. I get that. That’s where I come in.”

Alastair’s amused. They’re worse than demons. He imagines plucking the pin off a grenade and lobbing it in, watching the angels scramble and push each other out of the way in order to save their own asses.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Uriel says.

Alastair smiles. 

“I have access to your boy.”

“My boy?” Alastair says. Uriel narrows his eyes.

“Don’t make me say his name.”

Alastair laughs. “You angels are so pathetic. All that righteousness. Purity. Loyalty. But here you are, slaughtering your brethren. Even we don’t do that to our own kind. So what does that make you, angel?”

Uriel’s face tightens. “It’s unfortunate, but necessary. I do what I have to do. Loyal to whom I need to be loyal. “

“Lucifer, right,” Alastair says, leaning back as he crosses his fingers across his lap. “Ultimately he’s the only brother that matters, I suppose? What about your father, hmm? Your God?”

Uriel sneers. “My God.” He shakes his head. “Let’s just say I’m no longer following his orders. But no matter.”

Alastair doesn’t press him. With such limited time, he really doesn’t want to waste his time as something of such asinine importance. “So. What’s your proposal?”

“You let my brother capture you. Hang out on a little devil’s trap for a while. You’ll be alone with your boy, but this time, he gets to play with you.” Uriel pauses, gauging Alastair’s reaction. When he receives none, he continues. “I’ll get you out, you kill him, and we never hear from him or you again. He’s all yours. I’d think this would be amenable to you?”

It’s all so crude, so simple, but Alastair finds himself running his tongue along his teeth, already imagining his blood pooling in the cracks. Blood Dean will spill.

“What’s in it for you?” Alastair says. Uriel’s lip curls.

“Getting that boy out of the way?”

“Sure,” Alastair says casually. “And I appreciate it, I do. But what’s your goal?”

Uriel’s face is scrounged up; he doesn’t want to be here, to talk to a demon. A creature that’s below him. Right. “He’s getting in the way.”

“The way?” Alastair says innocently.

“My brother,” Uriel says lowly. “He’s becoming – enamored - with your boy. Too close. He’s not thinking clearly.”

“You fear Brother Castiel has fallen prey to the frailties of his vessel?” Alastair says.

The look of disgust slides away, and Uriel just looks pathetic. Desperate. For the first – and last – time, Alastair can sympathize with an angel. Losing the one person you love to someone who least deserves them.

“Let me get this straight,” Alastair continues. “You want me to come with you, willingly, let you string me up like a puppet so I can be carved, and trust that you’ll get me out?”

“You got it,” Uriel says, small smile sliding across his face. They’re on the same page, and Uriel knows it. “I have no reason to leave you there. I need you to get that filthy ape out of way. We both get what we want, yes?”

“And just how to you expect me to find a way to let myself get captured?” Alastair asks. “No offense there, Chuckles, but your brother’s powers really don’t stand a chance against mine.”

“Oh, I suspect you can think of something,” Uriel says.

Alastair pops another shrimp into his mouth, thinking. A plan that would bring both Castiel and Dean to him without raising an eyebrow isn’t going to be simple, he murmurs out loud.

Uriel frowns. “You don’t need Dean for this one.”

Alastair doesn’t bother answering that. He needs to see Dean one last time before he brings him home.

“If you want a guaranteed way to bring Castiel to you,” Uriel says, “you’re going to have to make a move on the next seal.”

“Eh,” Alastair says. “Not really my thing. Can’t I just accidentally show up where you and your other featherly friend are? And be captured there? Ta da!” He throws his arms in the air.

“I’m disappointed,” Uriel says. “I didn’t think you were someone who took the easy way out.”

“Ah, appeal to my sense of pride, why don’t you,” Alastair says. 

“I figured that you’d rather have them scurrying after you, rather than just giving yourself up,” Uriel says. “Play a little hard to get. Be the center of attention. Dean being the one to seek you out.”

“Oh, that’s just not fair,” Alastair says. “Can’t I just skip to the part where I take Dean off your hands and we go off into the sunset together?”

“You know,” Uriel says. “The seal that requires the death of a reaper would be perfect for it. Once upon a time, Dean had his very own reaper trying to lure him away from you. Tessa. Target her, and I guarantee you he’ll show up. Boy’s so pathetic that he’d come charging right in.”

 _Oh._ Just the thought of letting that reaper walk around free makes him seethe. He tries to imagine what it would have been like if she had been successful in getting Dean to come with her. What his life would be like without Dean in it. His hands curl into fists; he wants to tear that reaper apart. He shakes his head and tries to focus. 

“Choirboy would come flying right in, too,” Alastair says. Uriel glares at him but Alastair ignores it. “Well, I hadn’t really planned on breaking any seals besides the one. But I think I could handle the next one.” He feels that fire again, of letting that reaper crumble under his fingertips. The knowledge that getting Dean back is just mere days away is almost overwhelming. 

_Let’s see what you’re made of, hmm? If you’re gone soft, my boy._

“I think we’ve got an arrangement,” Alastair says.

:::

It works like a charm, just like Alastair knew it would. The Winchesters and that angel are just so damn _predictable._ He thought he’d be embarrassed to let that heavenly suck up capture him, but he’s not, not at all. Because Dean is completely worth it, and he lets his mind drift off to happier times, to Dean by his side.

But he has to admit it hurts.

It’s been awhile - millennia, _eternity_ \- since he’s been the one on the rack. But he can’t. Stop. Smiling. Because this is the only place that has ever felt like home. And he loves that finally, he’s the object of Dean’s rage, the soul on Dean’s rack. Could never ask for that in Hell, after all. But he’s always wondered what it would be like.

Dean’s got a hold of the knife now. Alastair laughs. “There’s that little pig-poker. I wondered where it went.”

It’s beautiful. One of a kind. It looks right in Dean’s hand. He stares at the curve of the blade, and pictures it caressing Dean’s throat, his Adam’s apple, carving it out. Alastair imagines holding it, feeling the weight and warmth in his palm, the essence that only Dean possesses, that moment when Alastair falls in love all over again. His fingers curl protectively in anticipation.

“Do you really think this is gonna fix you? Give you closure? That is sad. That's really sad. Sad, sad.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering; he just steps closer. Alastair can almost smell him - his favorite smell is burning, pure and simple; he watches imaginary flames dance above Dean’s head, licking at the locks.

He hears the sizzling, smells the burning, but it’s his own skin, and that’s not as enjoyable, no no no. He’s saddened to realize that being on the rack just isn’t as good as he remembered. Having Dean under his tutelage has spoiled him.

“I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There is no going back.”

“Maybe you're right,” Dean says. “But now it's my turn to carve.”

Alastair hides a smile. His Dean is still there. Oh yes, he is. And oh, this hurts the most, that pesky little knife carves up his ribs. He rides it out - _wait, just a moment. This will pass, he’ll get Dean back, make Dean cry and beg and slobber, he will._

Alastair mourns the loss of the knife as Dean pulls it out, though. Because this is them. This is love. And Alastair’s ready to go, ready to take Dean back home. To break Dean down all over again and drink in that deterioration, to feel Dean’s skin underneath his fingertips as Dean quivers and shakes. But Dean will rebound, stronger than ever. He’s confident of that.

Alastair’s speaking, he knows he is, but his mind is elsewhere as he pictures that look of glee on Dean’s face. A look that is completely natural to Dean’s features despite the fact that he hasn’t had much practice with it outside of Hell. He imagines the proud day when Dean truly becomes his equal.

Alastair has no idea where God may be, but as he looks up and sees the leaking pipe, he knows God is on his side today.

:::

_Alastair sees the room in his mind’s eye. He smiles in thanks._


End file.
